


Toxicity.

by Marinne



Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Let's pretend the last episode ended differently, M/M, Not really that posterior, Post-Canon, Seriously now why is everything implied did I write anything, So canon divergence all right, That is applicable to everything I write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 14:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10641876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marinne/pseuds/Marinne
Summary: Perhaps if Justin’s smile hadn’t shattered Alex would have turned him away, but he doesn’t. Alex is like that. He’s never really fallen for Justin’s smile before, only expressed interest when Justin was too fucked up to hide all the shit welling up inside of him, threatening to self–destruct. Alex is into that. He’s drawn to messed up people. Otherwise he’d never have let Justin set a foot into his house again.--Justin is completely done with everything and it turns out Alex is too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I reckon everything is pretty clear with the tags but I'd just like to say that this might count as spoilers in a way if you haven't watched the whole series. If you have, you'll know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, then you won't so proceed anyway.

_It wasn’t my fault._

He’s thought it so many times he might as well cut it into his skin, take a blade like Hannah did and carve the ugly words into his wrists, his heart, his neck.

_It wasn’t my fault._

Justin is a saint. Well, he’s not. Only he is; he’s _that_ sort of saint, the one that all other jackasses out there look up to, the one that makes pretentiousness and fake smiles and a bad attitude look good, something to strive for. He’s the sort of saint that spews bullshit like a faucet smashed to pieces and others drink it up like he’s brought them the most delicious of toxicity. Because that’s what’s _in_ right now. You can’t be anyone if you’re not willing to kill yourself little by little, one way or another.

And then there’s Hannah, who just had to go out with a motherfucking bang.

The boy lights a cigarette; pops it into his mouth. He’s got to weigh up his chances, use what little brain he has left to make actual proper decisions this time. The truth is, he has nowhere left to go. He’s never had anywhere left to go, really, but it’s only hit him now and he’s terrified. Everything’s just happening so fast – he’d tried to buy time, just a little bit of it, but he’s broke and _time_ is exactly the one thing he’ll never be able to afford.

Going home is out of the question. Seth’s there. Probably fucking his mother through the mattress or the floor or wherever they are when he suddenly decides he wants to slobber over her some more. A sharp pain goes through Justin’s head – though the bruises on his neck throb in protest, since that’s where the memories really hurt him – and he decides it’s better to forget them, to not think about how much of a filthy wreck his life has always been, even before Hannah and those _fucking_ tapes.

That’s what it’s always been about, after all. Right? His life. The mess he’s never believed he deserved – the injustice of being young and being stripped of the love everyone else takes for granted. Life’s never been easy for him, never let him stand on his own two feet. The only difference between now and a week ago is that there’s no one there to hold him up when he gets knocked down, this time. Not Bryce, not Jessica, not Zach. Not anyone. He’s on his own. Having a pretty smile isn’t going to help him now.

It’s dark and he’s still walking. He’s counting his steps, trying to keep his mind busy so it won’t dare dance over to all the mistakes he’s made. Wanting to leave them behind is foolish, ridiculous, unrealistic. Still, it’s better than sitting down and letting everything wash over him until he’s got that gun in his bag pressed tight up to the roof of his mouth.

This isn’t it. It isn’t the end. Damn it, it’s not. He’s Justin Foley, the sad kid locked out of the house crying for his mother to let him back in, promising he’ll be quiet and pretend he doesn’t exist this time. Justin Foley, the boy who charmed everyone the moment he started going to school, who chatted up the right people at the right time and got by smiling real pretty and letting them destroy him over a new pair of basketball shoes. Justin Foley, who managed to build himself out of nothing just because he’s real fucking smart and real fucking stupid all at once, and he’s always known how to prioritise.

Look where _that_ got him. He’s got a corpse on his conscience and his life’s been ruined but he’s still thinking about stupid priorities.

There’s no money in his pockets that’ll pay for a taxi or the bus fare, so he walks. He walks all over that fuming shit of a town, swears at teenagers drunk driving scarily close to the pavement and over puddles on the road that get him soaked with the murky water. It’d be almost funny if he was behind the wheel, but he’s not. He doesn’t have a car.

Somehow, he ends up in a neighbourhood he recognises. The streetlights blink at him, welcoming him to the nice side of town, with cute little houses framed by cute little front lawns and garden gnomes next to driveways with squeaky clean cars in them. One of these cute houses, as he knows from past experience, is where the Standalls live. Alex hates him and he knows it, so he shouldn’t really be testing his luck like this, but hell he’s got nothing else to do and nothing to lose, so he shoulders his sports’ bag into a more comfortable position and trudges up the driveway.

Standing in front of the house, he wonders which room Alex’s was. It’s different from outside and he never bothered trying to memorise the layout. It’s a bit late to be ringing the doorbell but – apparently – not late enough to be silent, and Justin can hear the unmistakable sound of Alex on his guitar. It’s soft, melancholy. Sad in the way Alex is into. He follows the sound of heartbroken notes and crystal screams to the back of the house, and it so happens that that’s exactly where Alex’s room is.

The boy is there, sitting on his bed with that same day’s clothes, face still bruised and bloodied from his fight with Montgomery. Yet, at the same time, he isn’t there, he’s lost; far away from the world of laws and schools and tapes, of girls and razors and secrets. Alex is where the music is; Justin doesn’t know what to call that place, but he wishes he could go there too. As usual, he doesn’t have what it takes to get there.

Hesitation almost keeps him from interrupting Alex in his escapade. Almost, but not quite. Justin strides up to the window and raps it with his knuckles, flashing the blond a tight–lipped smile when he comes back to let his feet land on the ground in the real world, eyes glancing in Justin’s direction.

Clearly, Alex isn’t pleased to see him. Justin doubts he’s the person he’d most like to see standing there. Regardless, Alex leaves his guitar on the mattress and gets up, takes his time walking over to window and pulling it open. He doesn’t make small talk.

“What do you want, Justin?”

Instinct draws Justin’s hand to his hair and his fingers graze it, making him absently think he rather wants a warm shower. Instead of saying so, he keeps his smile in place and leans forwards a little, the window’s height making it so that he is several heads below Alex’s and has to crane his neck up to look at him. “Can I come in?”

“No,” Alex answers at once, honest to a fault.

“Fuck off. It’s late.”

“Come on, Standall,” Justin insists, smiling wider. However, smiles are difficult things to handle, and the bigger they become, the harder it is to maintain them and so Justin’s cracks; splinters under the weight of his agitation. He can’t take another night in the street with only the company of thoughts too loud to let him sleep it all away. “Just tonight.”

Perhaps if Justin’s smile hadn’t shattered Alex would have turned him away, but he doesn’t. Alex is like that. He’s never really fallen for Justin’s smile before, only expressed interest when Justin was too fucked up to hide all the shit welling up inside of him, threatening to self–destruct. Alex is into that. He’s drawn to messed up people. Otherwise he’d never have let Justin set a foot into his house again.

It’s warm inside Alex’s room. The biting cold from the night outside hasn’t worked its way in, doesn’t have time to advance before Alex shuts the window again. Justin stands in midst of all of the boy’s things, his room not particularly tidy, and he looks around even though it’s the same as the last time he was there. His host leans back against the window, letting the back of his head rest against the glass. The reflection of his emotionless face glows dimly to his left and that’s where Justin’s eyes fix when the boy starts talking. His eyes look so empty.

“So what brings you here into my humble domains?” he asks, tone sarcastic, bored, like nothing Justin has to say can possibly interest him in the slightest. He shrugs.

“Need somewhere to sleep.”

Alex raises both eyebrows. He’s crossed his arms, looks unimpressed. “Why didn’t you stay at Jessica’s?”

Hearing her name sends a shot of pain through him and he turns his face away, sucking his lips in. It’s stupid, really. That he’s let a girl of all things mean so much, take him so far under he doesn’t know how to get back up. Justin breathes out through his nose shakily. Alex doesn’t miss a thing.

“We’re...taking a break. From each other and shit.”

The blond chuckles, like he believes nothing. “Yeah right.”

“What the fuck do you know?” Justin snaps, glowering at him. He’s got a fierce glare in his eyes and an irritable scowl curves his mouth, so that it’s finally clear for Alex to see what a state he’s in: there’s dark circles around his eyes made darker by his own interior darkness, his face is pale, almost sickly, and his lips are full of cuts from him biting down on them when they were too dry to take it.  
At last, Alex shows curiosity, relaxes his stance. Somehow showing himself more at ease in the face of an impending wreckage, a disaster working on an empty stomach.

“Right,” he says, smiling faintly, more like a nervous tick at the corner of his mouth than a smile. “What would I know? I’m just the loser ex of the girlfriend you let a rapist loose on.”

Justin’s pinned Alex against the window faster than his bag drops to the floor. His temper’s flared fast, scorching hot, and when he grabs Alex by the throat it’s not even a warning. Alex doesn’t fight back but he chokes on the air he isn’t getting and one of his hands comes to close around Justin’s wrist. His touch is startlingly cold and it makes him flinch, rabid fury turning to welling panic as he sees himself reflected in Alex’s clear eyes. It all washes over him in an instant: the smell of more than one illicit compound burning in the air, dirty clothes, alcohol; weary limbs after school struggling to fight against the current of hate depicted in bloodshot, faded eyes. Bruises blossoming. Tears of helpless anger springing up.

Justin forces his eyes closed, wills it all to stop, self–absorbed to the point that his grip on Alex’s throat has loosened up completely and it’s more there to support himself rather than anything remotely violent. He hears Alex laugh, but the blond says nothing, not for a while. He pushes Justin off him without a sole word, lets the brunet hold himself up using the window. Justin watches him as Alex crouches in front of his bed, as he pulls out a second one from beneath his one. Then the boy stands back, opens his arms in the direction of the second bed and lets out a toneless _ta–da_ like he’s finished a magic trick and half expects Justin to shower him with applause. Justin looks at him, doing his best not to stare through him, but can’t find anything to say.

“Looks like dark and broody comes with a side of ungrateful,” Alex remarks. He plops down on the bottom bed, like he’s expecting Justin to join him. And that’s exactly what Justin does. He drags his feet until he’s run out of room and finally collapses on top of the mattress, too spent to even bother sit up.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Thanks for letting me stay here.”

He doesn’t really see it, but slight movement at the corner of his vision gives away the fact that Alex just brushes his words off, unbothered.

“Jessica can do that,” he says, too suddenly and out of context for Justin to know what he means.

“What?”

“Makes you feel like a fuckwad,” Alex elaborates, pauses for a second and then continues, some kind of ironic lilt to his voice. “I mean, we both are, but she has a way of reminding you.”

Justin cracks a hint of a smile that is taken over by a tired, hearty groan. “Hannah fucked up everything.”

“Technically we fucked up everything for her first.”

Justin grunts in response. “Yeah. Apparently _I_ fucked everything up.”

At this, the Standall son lets out a laugh that sounds genuinely amused, all things given. The bed shifts as Alex too leans back, on his side, facing Justin and with his head propped up on his palm. “You sort of did, dude. Not to put all the blame on your shoulders since I’m king dick here, of course.”

Justin shrugs. It doesn't compare. He knows it doesn't. But he's just so tired of thinking about it. “Jessica has a better ass than Hannah anyway,” he utters, barely thinking it.

“That is arguable.”

Now it’s Justin’s turn to let out a laugh and he too turns towards Alex so that they’re face to face, surprisingly close. “We’re talking about my girlfriend here,” he points out. Alex is grinning.

“ _Ex_. She just dumped you,” he reminds him. Next thing they know, Justin is on top of him, staring down while caught in between forcing out a laugh at his misfortune to play along with Alex’s artificial good humour, or scowl and show what he’s really feeling. In the end he does neither, simply sits there, on top of the bruised up boy, with a hand against his chest holding himself up. Alex’s heart beats hard under his fingertips and it’s distracting, if only a little.

He can really see Alex from here – not just physically, taking in the cut at the top of the bridge of his nose, or the purple–green bruise on his cheek, his split lips. No, he sees Alex as _Alex_ , as the guy who’s fucked his own life up by fucking up Hannah’s, just like him. The guy who’s clearly losing sleep with guilt curling around inside of him, coiling and uncoiling, an impatient, rough rope that will one day be his noose. The guy who’s a flare of exemplar teenage spirit: broken spirit, broken heart, tough bones but thin skin. He can all but read his problems in his eyes and now comes to wonder if Alex can see _him_ as he is, too.

“Do you have something to smoke?” he asks, perhaps with the single intention of filling the silence up somehow. Alex rolls his eyes.

“My dad’s a cop, Justin.”

Justin lets out a snort but doesn’t reply, too caught up looking at the reflection of Alex’s lashes in his pale eyes. He catches himself, eventually. Realises that he’s still on top of Standall and makes to roll off, but Alex keeps him there, all but staring up at him as he holds Justin in place.

“You know how they say that when you’re fucked anyway you just do whatever? Like self–destruction.”

“I’m familiar with the process,” Justin replies, just as quiet as Alex is speaking, feeling returning to his limbs, slowly spreading in towards the rest of his body. The blond beneath him sits up abruptly, so that he’s got his back pressed against the frame of the top bed, Justin still sitting back against his jean–clad thighs and not looking away from his face.

“Maybe we should try it. Self–destruction. It sounds tragic enough for someone like Ryan to write about,” he remarks in a thread of voice. Somehow, he’s still keeping his cool, in a way, talking as much as usual, as if this whole situation – this whole fucking mess surrounding them – is nothing more than an everyday drama to fill up half a page of a lousy kid’s diary troubles.

“The fuck’s _Ryan_ got to do with anything?”

“Everything’s got everything to do with everything, Foley,” Alex retorts, no hint of a smile anywhere in sight. “I thought that’d be clear by now. Hannah would be so disappointed that you missed the whole morale of the story.”

Justin brings their mouths together. It’s clear that this is where they’re going to end up and he wants to speed things along, move a little faster. There’s so much they need to put behind them that self–destruction sounds real good right about now. Alex seems to agree – at least, he doesn’t attempt to pull back to keep on talking about stupid Ryan Shaver or Hannah Baker or anyone else from those damn tapes that have ruined everything. He holds Justin close, a hand in his hair, and lets his eyes fall closed as he lets Justin lead the way towards those last few moments before combustion, implosion.

He can taste blood and he doesn’t know which pair of cut lips it’s coming from but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, not right now. He’s found a way to make his mind go blank, and he takes it out on Alex’s guilt–filled body, drops a kiss for every one of their shared problems and then some more, extra ones for the shit that’s his and no one else’s. A bite for every single thing he wants to forget.

Yes they're both guilty, they're both as fucked as can be. They both have bruises they’d rather not talk about – and he doesn’t mean the ones on Alex’s face – and they both have this inherent, persistent desire to just let go, fuck everything and disappear. Perhaps, just perhaps, this isn’t such a bad way to go about it.

After all, toxic really is what’s in right now.


End file.
